


Apologia ad Iphigeniam

by DreamingPagan



Series: Four For a Boy Verse [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: And discovers that career might not be everything, Family Fluff, Fix-it fic, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hennessey POV, In Which Hennessey Acquires a new Moniker, In Which James and Thomas are So Married, In Which James is a Father, In Which an Apology is Had, Kid Fic, M/M, Reconciliation, The Author Has Read Too Much Classical Lit, sequel to Four for a Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:53:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9318023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: Agamemnon, Hennessey thinks, was a lucky bastard.After all - he never had to apologize to Iphigenia.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The piece of classical literature referenced throughout the fic is Euripides' Iphigenia at Aulis, which tells the story of the daughter of Agamemnon of Iliad fame. She was sacrificed, to Agamemnon and her mother Clytemnestra's great sadness, at the will of Artemis, whom Agamemnon had offended. In some versions, she is saved at the last minute (also by Artemis, who really needed to make up her freaking mind), and taken to serve the Gods.

“Thus you may understand that love alone  
is the true seed of every merit in you,  
and of all acts for which you must atone.”  
― Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio 

He has, in the past, compared himself to Agamemnon.

The comparison makes sense, at least to his grief-addled, half-soused self. Like Agamemnon, he is a leader of men. He has fought many battles, weathered many storms -

Sacrificed a child.

In the days and weeks following James’ exile, he allows himself the comfort of the analogy. Like Agamemnon, he has been given no choice. One does not say no, either to deities or to Lords in the English parliament. They do not play the same games as mere mortals. They do not deal in fairness, or in goodness, or in honor. They demand blood, one and all, and Hennessey has paid his fair due. There is nothing to be done - nothing to be changed. Nothing to be argued with. He and Agamemnon - both cursed by the gods, both forced into deeds they want no part of. Helpless. Hopeless.

Five years and four thousand miles away from the bottle, Hennessey knows that Agamemnon was a lucky bastard. 

The thought crosses his mind more than once on the way to his destination. It is, perhaps, arrogant of him to even try. James, he cannot help but think, will not want him here, and well he should not. He will not want to see his own personal Agamemnon - the man that helped to see him banished - who helped to land him in his current circumstances, exiled from the sea, a _farmer_ , if the rumors are to be believed. The thought of it alone rankles, conjuring up a thoroughly unwelcome image in Hennessey’s mind, and he cannot help but imagine how the boy he raised will feel about this turn of fate and about him. Utter, untameable, unthinking fury comes readily to mind, as does condemnation and even contempt, and he nearly turns back at least once, nearly goes back to the newly reclaimed fort, tail between his legs and dignity preserved, and yet -

Where is the dignity in what he has done to his own son? Where, he thinks bitterly, is James’ dignity? Where is the justice in denying him the chance to so much as rail at Hennessey for his crimes? He does not deserve the comfortable safety that a return to the fort would offer, and so, one day not too long after the island has been pacified, its inhabitants pardoned or forced to leave, Hennessey takes himself off down the dusty road toward the house he has been informed now serves as home to Thomas, Miranda, and James.

He forgets about the child until he is within sight of the house. It’s an easy oversight - he is simply not used to thinking about James in the context of fatherhood, and so when he spots the little brown-haired moppet running about outside with James close on his heels, he cannot help but sit back in his saddle, momentarily startled.

He has, he thinks, perhaps been imagining too often what he himself would feel at the prospect of being dismissed from the Navy when he imagines James. He has done so a thousand times since the younger man’s departure from London. He has imagined him grieving, imagined him suffering the loss of his career, imagined him a broken shell of a man bereft of that which, for Hennessey, makes life worth living. Imagined him stripped of his purpose and the will to go on, in short. In his darkest moments, he has imagined James giving up on life altogether. What he sees in front of him, though -

“Come back here you little monster!” The fondness in James’ tone belies his harsh words, and Hennessey watches as he chases a laughing, screaming little boy wearing only a pair of trousers and covered in soap lather through the yard, grinning all the while. He is as far from the broken wreck Hennessey had imagined as he possibly can be, and Hennessey cannot help but feel a great wave of relief wash over him. James’ hair is escaping its queue, and his clothing is sweat-soaked (or possibly just covered in bath water - Hennessey is fairly certain he can see some lather clinging to both father and son), but he is undeniably in good health, apparently with energy to spare. At last, he catches the child, grabbing hold of him under the arms to lift him into the air. “You, sir,” he says, slightly breathless, “are captured. What are you going to do about it?” The child blows a raspberry, and James affects an air of indignation.

“Really?” he asks, and the boy giggles. 

“Well,” James continues, “your father might be a gentleman but you, you little rascal, most definitely are not.” He turns, heading back toward the house, the boy still in his arms. “Time to go back to your bath,” he says, and the child wriggles. “Oh no you don’t,” James continues. “Not this time. You’re going to get clean, even if I’m fishing you out of another mud puddle five minutes from now.” 

The child struggles again. 

“Daddy -” he starts, and James gives him a stern look. 

“No. Now stop that - you’re going to slip and fall.” The boy’s face starts to screw up, a frown forming, and it is at that moment that Hennessey knows. Christ Jesus, the lad is the spitting image of his father, especially when he does that, and oh dear God, is there any expression in the world more familiar to Hennessey himself than that one? He lets out an involuntary snort of laughter, and the horse answers him, snorting and pawing at the earth impatiently, alerting James to his presence. He sees his son turn - sees the moment that James registers that there is an unfamiliar presence in front of his home, and sees the moment that laughter turns to concern. 

“William,” he says quietly, his tone shifting entirely. “Go and find your mother. Do it now, no arguments.” He sets the child down carefully, extending a hand to keep the lad behind him when the boy takes a step forward. “Now, Will,” he orders, and the boy turns, running away down the path, his small face suddenly concerned as well. James turns, and Hennessey dismounts, the game up, his brief period of covert surveillance ended. 

“James,” he greets, and James frowns. 

“Admiral,” he offers, and Hennessey feels a dart of something approaching shame go through him. There is nothing of the trust they once shared in James’ voice or his gaze, only wariness.

“He’s a fine boy,” Hennessey offers, and James quirks an eyebrow, his mouth flattening into an unhappy line. 

“He takes after his mother,” he half-agrees, “although God knows he’s got my temper and Thomas’ stubbornness. Is there a reason for your visit?” He is tense - his shoulders bunched, hand going to his belt for a weapon that Hennessey notices is not actually there, his green eyes trained on Hennessey as if he might at any moment turn threatening, and Hennessey cannot help but wince - cannot help but hunch his own shoulders a bit at the look on his son’s face. He’s earned this, he knows. He has no one but himself to blame for this mistrust - no one living anyway, and he will not attempt to hide behind the shade of Alfred Hamilton. Agamemnon, he thinks once again, was a lucky, lucky bastard not to have had to face up to his mistakes like this.

“James,” he begins, and stops, looking at the younger man for a moment. Where to begin? “Are we not still family, of a kind?” he asks, and James frowns still harder.

“No,” he answers flatly. “We’re not. You’ve made that eminently clear, and until I know what you’re doing here, you’re not coming anywhere near my family. What are you doing on my doorstep?” 

The deliberate obtuseness sends a spike of irritation running through him, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Christ’s sake, what do you _think_ I came to do?” Hennessey asks, slightly exasperated. “What possible business could I have here?” 

James crosses his arms.

“I can think of several things, none of them pleasant,” he answers. “If you’ve come to take me in for murder, though, I’ll remind you -”

Hennessey gapes. 

“Is that what you believe?” Hennessey asks. “That I would come here to -” He gestures wordlessly, and James gives him a look.

“Should I not?” he asks, and Hennessey deflates. Of course. He has given James no reason to believe otherwise - not really, apart from a note he was not even man enough to attach his name to. 

“No,” he answers, and sighs. He swallows hard, resisting the urge to reach forward, to place a hand on either of his son’s arms and embrace him. He has not earned that right - not yet, and he may never. 

“James,” he starts again. He is not used to this - to seeking atonement for anything, proud and stiff as his exalted position has made him, and he can see now that he has not done himself or James any favors by allowing his rank to dictate his actions. “Is it not just conceivable that I’ve come to apologize?” he asks finally, and James starts.

“ _Apologize?_ ” he asks incredulously, and Hennessey nods, his eyes seeking James’. He squares his shoulders. Here, he thinks, comes the part that will hurt - the part that will burn, hopefully hot enough to scorch away his cowardice. Hot enough, perhaps, to convince the gods to relent and give his son back to him. There are, after all, versions of Euripides where the girl is saved, are there not? 

“I am sorry,” he says baldly. “For what was said in my office. For what was done to you and to the Hamiltons. For this entire bloody awful mess, and for not telling Alfred where to _put_ his accusations. For not at least doing you the courtesy of warning you what was about to happen when I could not prevent it. I was wrong,” he says, and James stares at him, clearly thunderstruck. “I am sorry,” he repeats, and he can see James’ eyebrows twitch, his entire face a study in attempted composure in the face of utter and complete shock. 

“You -” he starts, voice strangled, and then footsteps sound behind him and he turns, half his body still facing toward Hennessey, to look to -

“Thomas,” he says, and the utter relief in his voice is both painful to hear and enlightening. Hennessey has not been fortunate enough to fall in love in his lifetime, perhaps through simple chance or perhaps through his own pigheadedness, but he likes to think that he knows it when he sees it in others and James, he realizes, is quite head over heels in love with Thomas Hamilton. The feeling, he knows, is mutual. It is part of the reason that he alerted James to Thomas’ whereabouts when he was to be transferred from Bedlam - the knowledge that whatever else he was, Thomas Hamilton loved James enough to walk willingly into hell to keep him safe. The thought fortifies him. He has not been entirely inactive, after all, as his presence on the island and his somewhat belated support for the pardons shows. He is not entirely blameless but neither is he a monster. He straightens, meeting Thomas’ gaze.

“Lord Hamilton,” he greets, and Thomas raises an eyebrow. 

“Admiral Hennessey,” he answers, and reaches out, offering a hand to be shaken. He is taller than Hennessey had expected, having met his father, and thankfully he looks nothing like Alfred, save about the eyes. He must take after his mother, Hennessey thinks absently, and then grimaces, imagining the poor woman forced into a marriage to Alfred Hamilton. Ye Gods - the boy’s a walking miracle from that standpoint, being sane and rational and apparently entirely devoid of any sign of the roiling maelstrom in which he must have grown to manhood.

“You appear to have come alone,” Thomas continues, and there is a faint edge to his voice. “I will assume, then, perhaps naively, that you have not come to drag James or myself back to the fort in chains.” 

Perhaps not so unlike his father as he would like to be anymore, Hennessey observes. This is not the man that James had told him about so long ago - the dreamer with no grasp of politics or of reality. The blue eyes watching him are sharp, watchful, even as he offers greetings, and the hand he places on James’ shoulder is clenched ever so slightly, comforting and yet possessive as if to emphasize that any attempt on James’ safety will, by necessity, have to come through Thomas first. Bedlam has changed him - not entirely, not enough to turn him bitter but enough to make him more suspicious, less the pacifist of old and more the sort of man who stands half a chance of surviving the world and its cruelty. Hennessey cannot say that he disapproves. Someone should look after James’ welfare, since Hennessey himself has failed so badly at the role.

Speaking of James’ family -

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Hennessey assures them both, and sees Thomas relax a fraction. “I have said my piece, or a part of it, to James, and now I would say it to you as well, and your lady wife if I may.” 

“He says he came to -” James starts, and has to stop and collect himself. He rakes a hand through his hair and looks at Thomas with a strangely vulnerable expression on his face. “He says he came to apologize,” he finishes, and Thomas shoots him a look, at once understanding and surprised.

“Truly?” he asks. There is a note of skepticism in his tone, Hennessey notes - something cynical and almost angry, and Hennessey nods, suddenly less certain that Thomas’ presence is the saving grace he had first assumed. 

“Yes. I’ve said it to him, and now I’ll say it to you, if you’ll permit me.” 

“I’m not certain that I shall,” Thomas answers, and James turns, brows knitting together this time not in anger but in concern. 

“Thomas,” he starts, and Thomas turns. 

“Six months, James,” he reminds him tensely, and James closes his eyes for a moment. 

“The note,” he answers finally, and Thomas rolls his eyes. 

“Five years ago,” he counters, and James sighs. He opens his eyes again and then looks at Thomas. They do not speak, but finally James lowers his gaze. 

“It’s your call,” he says finally, and Thomas looks at him. He’s shaking ever so slightly, Hennessey realizes, and wonders at the level of communication that is going between them without further words being spoken. At last, Thomas turns and takes a deep breath. He releases it, and then gives James a grimace, half apologetic and half an actual smile.

"No," he says, "it's not, not entirely. He's your mentor." James returns the smile, and Thomas turns to Hennessey, his expression half stern disapproval and half something entirely different - wary hope perhaps. 

“I’m not certain that I believe you,” he says finally, “but James is right. It’s been five years, and if he can move on with life, then perhaps I can as well. Come - join us for dinner and we’ll talk things over like rational men.” He squeezes James’ shoulder, gives Hennessey a smile that looks somewhat shaken but genuine,and then walks away, heading toward the house, and James watches him go, the look on his face full of pride and sorrow mixed.

“I imagine,” Hennessey says carefully, “that had I come five years ago, I could have expected far worse.” 

James turns back, and there is old pain in his eyes as he answers.

“You have no idea,” he answers, and Hennessey nods slowly. 

“I am glad,” he says, “that you received my note. I was not - pleased about the Maria Aleyne, you understand but -” James stands, waiting, and he shakes his head, dismissing his first inclination. “Oh damn it all whose eyes do I imagine I’m pulling the wool over? Never did a man deserve his fate more than that boy’s bastard father, and I shan’t hold it against you. A service to the Navy and to anyone who’d ever known the blackguard.” He does not imagine the way that James’ shoulders sag slightly, or the way that his eyes lose a bit more of their wariness as he lets out a huff of breath that is almost a laugh. When he next speaks it is with the cautious air of a man testing dangerous waters, but speak he does. 

“We made certain that was included in the pardon,” he answers. “Just in case.” Hennessey raises an eyebrow.

“You did take one, then?” he asks, and James nods. 

“Yes,” he answers. “I was against it at first - so was Thomas, but -” His gaze flickers toward the house, and Hennessey can guess the rest of the sentence. 

“But your lady wife is an intelligent, sensible woman?” he asks, and James looks back at him, startled at his use of the term. 

“We’re not -” he starts uncomfortably, and Hennessey waves a hand. 

“You have a child together, yes?” he asks. “You live in the same house, share the same bed?” 

James flushes, and nods, short and sharp. 

“Then by common law I do believe I may be excused for using the term,” Hennessey says. “She’s always struck me as wiser than both you and Lord Hamilton combined. I would quite like to meet her.” 

“Daddy!” The small voice comes from behind James, who turns, this time not bothering to keep an eye on Hennessey.

“Yes?” he asks, and little William holds his arms out to be picked up. James obliges.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asks in all seriousness, and William nods. 

“Mama says to hurry up and come in,” he relays. “She says that -” He stops, his small face screwing up with concentration. “Adm’ral Henseed needs ta wash up an’ so do you.” He beams, message delivered, and James makes a valiant effort not to laugh. 

“Well,” he answers, “I suppose we shouldn’t keep her waiting then. Was there anything else?” William shakes his head, and James smiles. “Alright,” he answers, and puts his son down. “Will!” he calls after him as the child starts to speed away. “Wait a moment. Did you ever get your bath?” The boy giggles, and James shakes his head. 

“I would call that a ‘no,’” Hennessey opines. 

“One of these days I’m just going to toss him in the lake,” James mutters. “Maybe learning to swim will convince him to at least come into contact with water if not soap.” Hennessey laughs, and James turns to him, a rueful smile on his face that fades somewhat when he remembers who he’s speaking to and about what. He straightens.

“If you meant what you said earlier,” he starts, and Hennessey meets his gaze unflinchingly. 

“Every word,” he affirms, and James nods.

“Alright,” he answers. “I’m willing to give you a chance. I can’t just - _forgive_ you, not right away at least, and I don’t think Thomas or Miranda will either, but -”

“Another chance,” Hennessey says, “is all I ask. Thank you, James.” James gives him a half-smile.

“You’re welcome. Besides,” he adds, “I can hardly pass up the chance to keep calling you Admiral Henseed, now can I?” 

Hennessey rolls his eyes.

“Damn the boy,” he says jokingly. “If I hear one chicken noise from anything lacking the requisite feathers, I shall mutiny.” 

James laughs, and Hennessey joins in as they turn toward the house and dinner. They are not reconciled - not completely, not yet, but it’s a start. 

No, he thinks - Agamemnon was not a lucky bastard, but he himself might just be.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are loved and appreciated! Apologies for grumpy Thomas but Bedlam really knocked him for a loop and most people I think would have more trouble facing one of the people that caused them to be tortured even five years out. It's a testament to who he is that he does this well, really.
> 
> As to why this is happening in 1710 - let's just assume that with Thomas alive and Hennessey having removed his head from his arse, the pardon provision got pushed through and the island pacified a little early with Naval support and some pushing from friends of Thomas and Miranda.


End file.
